The Breaking Point
by Skalidra
Summary: There are weeks that are just hell, and Hal gets them more often than most. He's got an entire sector of the universe to run for the Green Lantern Corp, and that includes protecting the ones already under their control to keep them running smoothly. Sometimes everything just goes wrong. - Earth-3 connected universe, Hal Jordan/Barry Allen. Prompt Fill.


**This is part of a larger continuity of stories. Please consult my profile for the master reading list if you want to read them in order.**

Welcome to the first of my actual Monday updates! So, this was a prompt by the Tumblr user 'Fiendishpersona', requesting: 'Hal Jordan and Barry Allen, at a club/bar, Earth-3.' - It might have kind of spiralled out of control, and turned significantly less happy than I wanted it to be. XD

This contains **warnings** for: **referenced** murder of children, lots of death, burning, skinning. Nothing is explicitly described.

* * *

Landing on one of the tallest buildings in Coast City feels like way more effort than it should be. My legs shake a little bit as my weight comes back down onto them, after the flying, and it's all I can do not to slump down onto the rooftop in exhaustion. It's not the travel that's the problem — I take trips to _Oa_ and that's not that hard, just long — but it's been a shitty week in general and I haven't had real _rest_ , just snatched hours of sleep between jobs. There have been rebellions on some of the other planets in my sector, a civil _war_ that I barely dragged to a stop before it really got going, and this _moron_ who thought he could go against the might of the Green Lantern Corp and get away with it. He — it? — tried to take over one of the planets I watch over, and I had to hunt him down and take him apart to get it back. And then there was the _volcano_ …

It's not just preparing a planet for control by the Green Lantern Corp that's my job, once it's under our control I have to _keep_ it that way. It's not anything more than a monthly payment of resources or goods back to Oa, it's even _fair_ and scaled to how large the population is and what they can afford to give, but not everyone appreciates our rule, and a planet isn't useful to us if a natural disaster cripples production, or something like that.

Sometimes I feel like a damned _hero_. Every planet in this sector under the control of the Green Lantern Corp is my responsibility, and that means I have to keep them running smoothly, and fix any problems that come up. It means if there are terrorists, or some maniac villain trying to take over, _I_ have to stop it if the local military can't. On most of these planets I'm not even thought of as a criminal, I'm just the Green Lantern representative and the disaster-level errand boy.

A power ring with nearly _infinite_ capabilities, and I'm stuck cleaning up after natural disasters or hunting down bombers. Stuck playing _hero_.

I should be heading back to my excuse of an apartment — it's not like I actually sleep there enough to make it worth it; I don't know why I still _have_ it — or checking in with the rest of the Crime Syndicate, or with the people working for me in my territory to make sure I haven't missed anything. That's what I _need_ to do, and what I'll get snapped at for if I don't.

I just need a minute. Just a little bit of time to breathe away from the press and noise of other people and deal with this exhaustion on my own. I don't want to face down Owlman while I'm this tired, and I probably shouldn't go out in front of our subordinates looking tired either. I _should_ just crash for a few hours, charge my ring, and deal with everything else later. No matter how many disapproving glances or thinly veiled insults it gets me from the Owl.

"You kind of look like shit," comes a voice from behind me, pleasantly but also painfully familiar.

Yeah, _great_ , that's _exactly_ what I wanted to hear in my first two minutes back on Earth. I round on the speedster, kind of expecting to meet a teasing grin and to shout the nastiest, backhanded jab I can think of off the top of my head, but to my surprise he looks just a little concerned. Or maybe worried is a better way to say it. He's not grinning, and he's standing about seven feet away and not pressing me with being close and physical like he usually does.

So the anger curls and dies at the tip of my tongue, and when he doesn't follow up his comment I rake my hands up through my hair — remembering too late that there's a layer of ash, dirt, and bits of alien coated across most of my uniform — and then grimacing. "I _feel_ like shit," I admit, and my voice comes out rougher than I thought it would.

Barry takes a step closer, and then approaches me when I don't snap at him or glare. He reaches forward, swiping his thumb across my left cheek and making a face at the combination of dried blood, ash, and dirt that comes off on his yellow glove. I stare at it, too exhausted to really connect whether that's my blood or someone else's. Not everyone who bled near me this week did it in helpfully color-coded blood, some of them bled red, just like humans, and I don't remember if I actually contributed to that or not. I remember getting injured a couple times, but I don't know whether they actually bled or not, or for how long, or if that _particular_ smear is mine. Most of the last week, especially near the end, is a bit of a blur. Except for the parts I remember in _vivid_ detail.

The riddle of whether it's mine or not gets pushed to the back of my mind as Barry presses close and carefully loops his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me into something like an embrace. I'm too tired, too numb, too _done_ with the universe and its constant desire to ruin my life, to do anything but lower my head against his shoulder and let him.

"Welcome back to Earth," he says quietly, instead of asking anything, and god I could _kiss_ him for that.

I lift my left arm and slide it around his waist, loosely gripping and holding him against me. "How'd you know?" I ask. Barry doesn't usually hang out at the top of Coast City skyscrapers, and he's not usually hooked into the interstellar chatter either.

"Grid spotted you coming towards Earth, sent out a basic alert to the Syndicate." His hand feels good on my neck, fingers pressing into my skin almost like a massage. "I figured you'd land in Coast, then I tracked you as you came in." He pauses, and I can feel his breath on my skin but he doesn't do anything more than just loosely hold me. "You want to talk about it?"

My shoulders rise sharply at the thought of _talking_ about the mobs, or the fires, or the _children_. "No," I answer immediately, and I can feel Barry nod, hand flexing on my neck again.

"Alright, got it." His other hand touches my waist and then slides up my back, palm flat against the construct of my uniform. "Then how about we just head back to your apartment, and you take a long shower to wash most of this off? That sound better?"

I don't want to go back to my apartment. There's nothing there, it's barely even _me_ , and I don't want to sit in a place I hardly know and try to scrub the caked on _filth_ off of me. I shake my head, tightening my grip for a second. "I need a drink," I tell him, and his hand smoothes over my back again.

"Privately, or at a bar?" he asks without hesitation.

I pause, trying to drag enough of myself together to come up with an answer. A bar sounds bad — I'm not sure I'm up for that many people, or that much noise — but just having a drink at my own apartment sounds so much _worse_. Just the thought of that much _silence_ , or the quiet punctuated by just one voice — sobbing, _screaming_ — with the scent of blood and smoke and burnt flesh clinging to the back of my throat. The _sight_ …

" _Woah_ , Lantern! _Hal!_ "

I shudder, coming back to myself and away from the memories enough to swallow and grunt out, "Bar."

Barry actually _sounds_ worried, and his touch is careful but tight, like he thinks I'm going to slip away from him. "Alright, okay. Like this, or as civilians?"

I'm _not_ in the mood to deal with heroes right now. Not tonight. "Civilians."

"You're going to have to clean up to go out as a civilian, Lantern. Shower first, then I'll take you anywhere you want to go. Can you do that?" I don't _want_ to go back to my damn apartment. I don't— I don't want to _think_ , or _feel_. "I'll be there the whole time, promise. I'll join you in the shower if you want, though I don't think getting _clean_ is going to happen if I'm in there with you. Or I can just sit outside, or run and grab clothes, or whatever you want me to do. I'm—"

He's rambling, like _all_ speedsters do when they get nervous, or embarrassed, or just don't know what to say, and I pull him closer and bury my head a little further in against his shoulder. "Stay," I say, cutting him off, and he goes silent pretty much immediately. His arms tighten around me, and it occurs to me that probably the only reason his mouth isn't on my skin is because my skin is barely even visible in most places. It's too covered in the ash made of homes, and _people_ , and… _God_.

"I will," Barry promises. "Can you fly, or do you want me to get us there?" He can carry me, he's done it before, but I don't want that right now.

"I can fly." I flew _here_ , so I can manage a little more to get back to somewhere safe. I can do that.

I take in a deep breath, slowly letting go of him, and pull away. He lets me, and dimly I can see the smears that touching me has left on his costume; dark streaks along bright yellow. I stare at them, trying not to relate the streaks back to anything about what they're made of, or _who_ , or any of the awful things that I've done or seen this week. I— I _can't_ think about that right now. I _can't_.

His hand touches the side of my face and I flinch, but he doesn't pull away. "Meet you there?" he asks, quietly.

I manage a nod, focusing on his face and how I can barely see his eyes past the goggles pulled down over them. Just for a second. Then I force another breath through my throat and take another step back, looking down to my ring. It's not that hard. Just push everything else out of my mind, focus on the power, focus on the feeling of activating the powers that let me fly. All I have to do is devote a part of my mind to keeping that active, it's practiced, it's _easy_. I clench my hand to a fist, roll my shoulders and take a last glance at Barry — standing there waiting, because no matter how fast I fly he'll get there first — and then push up and off the skyscraper. The wind feels good, and I spiral down and off in the direction of my apartment, closing my eyes for a few moments just to feel it.

I don't push the speed, and when I open my eyes I can see the trail of Barry's lightning below me, keeping pace — occasionally jerking ahead and then flashing back, like he's making a point to _just_ keep pace — and winding through and around cars and late-night civilians. I speed up a bit for his sake, focusing on the route and the fastest way to get to my apartment. It's not long — by my estimate, anyway — before I'm slowing and pulling myself vertical to settle down on the roof of my apartment building.

Barry is already there, of course, and he waits just long enough for me to land and glance at him to acknowledge his existence before he's gone again in a flash of lightning. I follow much more slowly, waiting until I'm pushing through the roof door to dismiss the construct of my suit and the green aura supporting me. It feels just shy of _awful_ to be in my actual clothes again, and the removal of the suit's protection and support reminds me that I actually _did_ get hurt during the week. I clench my teeth, ignore the pain, and head down the single flight of stairs to the door of my apartment. The top floor, because anything else is just _asking_ for the whole apartment to see me in any and every state. Like now, with—

 _Can't_ think about that.

The door is cracked, and if I hadn't _just_ watched Barry come down here I might have worried but he always leaves doors open behind him if he knows I'm following. Unless he's got something planned, or he's going to be stripping down, which is a completely different thing.

I step inside my apartment, shutting the door, and then turn to flick the lock and close the deadbolt. There's another thing I'm not worrying about; Barry definitely knows how to pick locks, or he just came through my window instead. Either one is plausible. I can hear my shower running, and I trudge down the hallway and to the open door of my bathroom, light spilling out from inside. Barry is suddenly at my back, with a familiar whoosh of air over the skin of my neck, his chin on my right shoulder and his arm looped around my waist.

"You said you wanted me to stay." His voice is soft, his other hand finding mine and interlacing our fingers. "In here? Outside the door? Want me to come in there with you?"

I close my eyes and lean back into him, just enough to take some of the weight off of my feet. "In here," I answer, and he nods against me and squeezes his grip tighter around my fingers and waist. Then he lets me go, and I pause for just a second before moving further into the bathroom. Steam is just starting to curl up over the top of the glass door separating the shower from the rest of the room, and I shrug off my bomber jacket and let it drop to the floor. I can hear the fans click on; Barry must have flicked the switch.

I reach up and hook both of my hands at the collar of my t-shirt, dragging it up and off my torso. Barry touches the side of my waist, glove smooth against my skin, and I almost automatically look over my shoulder before I stop myself. His touch is gentle, and after a moment where his fingers trace patterns over my back I realize it matches up with the aches that I can feel. He's tracing bruises.

"I'm going to find some of your clothes that fit me," he says after a few moments, pulling away. "Back in a second."

Of course, he _means_ that, so I barely have time to drop my t-shirt to the side and kneel down to get to my boots before he's back. I hear the door shut, tugging the laces loose and trying to focus on that simple thing, to not let my mind drift. I _know_ where it's going to drift if I let it, and I… Not in front of anyone. I've kept up an image this long, to _everyone_. If I let myself show weakness in front of the Syndicate they'll turn on me; I'm already on shaky ground with Owlman and if I make it any worse…

I don't think Barry will say anything, but that chance isn't worth it. Barry's a… A friend? I don't know. I trust him more than the rest of the Crime Syndicate, or even most of the other Green Lanterns. They still see me as the inferior human, so my friends in there are few and far between. I hardly ever see them anyway. But Barry… He's…

He hasn't hurt me yet, not in any way that matters at least. Maybe I shouldn't judge it by pain.

Barry's never taken advantage of any weakness he knows I have anywhere but just between the two of us. _That's_ the important part. He knows so much about how my powers work, and how to circumvent them, and there have been at least a dozen times where he's known exactly where I'm injured and how bad it is. If he wanted to he could take me down _so_ easily. Or, maybe not. Maybe I'd beat him. I know a _lot_ about his speed now. I know how it looks, I know the warning signs, I know every _second_ of how to counter it.

I guess we've learned each other.

I push my boots and socks to the side, standing back up and then lowering my hands to unbuckle my belt and pull it off. I half expect Barry to do his customary thing when I push my pants and boxers down — press _really_ close and be all hands and a grin pressed against my skin — but he doesn't. I head for the shower, and I can hear him behind me but I don't turn back to look. I almost leave the door open when I slip inside, under the almost too-hot rush of water, but decide not to. I don't want Barry in here with me.

I don't want him to see this wash off me. _I_ don't even want to see it.

I look over at the sound of weight against glass, and find the blur of his body pressed against the door, sitting down with his back to it. "So, are we going gay bar or regular?" His voice is pitched to carry, and loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water.

"Does it matter?" I close my eyes, turning to bend back and arch underneath the spray; there's no way in _hell_ I'm washing what's in my hair out where it's going to run across my face. "Throw me a washcloth or something." I should really expect the way that the cloth smacks into my shoulder a second later, obviously flung over the top of the door, but I still scramble to catch it. I manage it, barely, and then drop it over the knob of the temperature controls for now.

"Well, if you're getting drunk then I'm pretty sure we're going to end up at least groping if not kissing. I mean, I've never _seen_ you drunk, but that's my guess." I reach for the shampoo, not confirming or denying the idea that I might be kind of a touchy drunk. "There's a lot of judgmental assholes in the world; we do that in a regular bar we might end up in a fight. You good for that?"

I shove my hands through my hair, working the shampoo in as I tilt my head back and stare up at my ceiling. A fight? That might not be bad. It might be _nice_ to take all of this out on someone who won't put up a challenge, or— _not_ going there. Maybe. But I don't have the protection of the Syndicate when I'm not dressed up as Green Lantern, and the chance that the police get involved is decently high. That could be bad.

"Not really in the mood to get arrested," is what I settle on answering, and I can barely hear how Barry snorts.

"Fair point." I can _hear_ the grin in his voice. "So, gay bar then. You know any here?"

"A couple." My hair feels lighter as I run my fingers through it, and I _viciously_ repress the memory of exactly what was in it. I dump more shampoo in my hand, for once obeying the 'rinse and repeat' they all preach. "I've got classy or partially-unclothed."

"Classy is _boring_ , Hal. Besides, I'm always for more eye-candy." He pauses, head thunking against the glass, and then continues, "It's not enforced partially-unclothed, right? You're pretty bruised, that probably won't work too well."

The corner of my mouth actually twitches up for a second, and then I shake my head and rinse the second round of shampoo out of my hair. "No, it's optional, Barry." I glance down, raking my gaze down my own frame to translate the aches into actual injuries. Probably the worst is a dark patch of bruises across the side of my right thigh, but I've got no idea what my back looks like. I can barely remember where most of these even came from, but at least they're pretty much all surface.

Might hurt if they get hit or poked, but I can ignore them with the aid of a couple of painkillers, easy.

"Oh, good. Wasn't really liking the idea of other people getting to stare at you anyway. So, how are we getting there? You suiting up to fly, am I carrying you, or are we grabbing a taxi or something? Fair warning, I haven't got any money on me, though I can totally fix that if you want."

There goes the corner of my mouth again, and this time it sticks around for a second before I start to think about his question. I don't want to fly. I don't want back in that _suit_ for at least the rest of the night, and after some decent sleep. Preferably with Barry in my bed, so I don't have to face the silence or the darkness on my own. I don't want to deal with trying to flag down a taxi either, and the club I'm thinking of is too far to walk, so I guess that leaves me with—

"You can carry me, and I can pay." I've got the money — it gets funneled into my account every week by some kind of untraceable thing Owlman set up for all the Syndicate members — and usually I don't like Barry carrying me but right now… I can deal with it. He already knows I'm pretty messed— He knows it was a shitty week. I shouldn't let my guard down any further, but I don't have to pretend to be alright either.

He knows me a little too well to be fooled by whatever kind of act I could pull.

"Great, sounds good. So, what do you drink? Shots, mixes, fruity?"

I bite my tongue before my automatic answer can leave it, reaching for the conditioner and squeezing some into my hands. "To get drunk, or for the taste?" I ask, as I consider what I'm going to tell him. I go out drinking sometimes, usually by myself, but when I do I don't want to get harassed or mocked by anyone around me. I might _like_ how appletinis taste — there's a soft spot in me for the green color, and a crazier part that likes to think I'm just drinking concentrated willpower — but I don't like having to deal with the bastards who mock my choice of drink for not being 'manly.' I can only punch so many people, and I try not to get police attention when I can avoid it.

"Can I get both?" Barry says, with a hint of teasing. "Or do I have to pick just one?"

I shove out a snort, and it feels… It feels good. Still, I decide to lie.

"To get drunk, it's shots. Whiskey, usually. For taste, it's bourbon. You?" No one mocks someone who drinks bourbon, and I might not like the taste of it but it lets me drink in peace. I can ignore the taste, and it gives me something to sip at instead of just swallow down. I only drink my appletinis if I'm in a place I _know_ no one's going to give me any shit about it. Gay bars, usually, but Barry has a tendency to tease and I don't know if I can take it right now without actually taking it personally.

"I don't drink much. I pretty much just ask the bartender to make me whatever their favorite is."

"Great, so they make you the most expensive drink in the house?"

"We've got the money; who cares? Like I said, I don't drink much anyway. Usually it's with Iris, and then it's just wine or a beer or something."

When did the mention of Barry's wife stop stinging and _aching_ somewhere in me? When did I stop feeling like I'd gotten punched every time I got reminded that Barry is _married?_ I know it used to hurt, or at least it used to be uncomfortable, but now it just feels like a fact. It's like it doesn't even matter to me — and I can't bring it to — that Barry is cheating on someone he swore vows to, with _me_. I mean, it's not my problem anyway, right? What Barry does is his business; it's not _my_ responsibility to keep him to the rules he decided to break. It's not my problem.

He must notice my silence, because it's only a couple of seconds — barely enough time for me to turn and shove my head back underneath the spray of water — before he starts talking again. "So which is it tonight? Whiskey or bourbon?"

There's the unspoken question. Am I getting drunk tonight, or do I just want a drink to focus on so I don't have to think? Getting drunk sounds _really_ appealing, but…

"Around you? Think I'll stick with bourbon, jackass." I don't know if I trust Barry enough to let my guard down that far, or risk whatever I might say while the alcohol's killing all of my higher brain functions. My control of the ring tends to get pretty spotty when I'm drunk; it's the total inability to really focus on something.

"Hey!" Barry sounds a bit offended, but in that teasing way he always does. "I promise to get you home, unmolested by anybody but me. You think I'm risking months of amazing sex just to leave you behind at a bar, Hal? I'm kind of more self-centered than that; thought you knew."

Fair point.

I reach for the soap, scrubbing at my skin to get what's left of the ash, dirt, and blood that hasn't already rinsed off. "I'll think about it. So what, you're going to fend everyone else away? What if there's some hot guy interested?"

"I can share." That grin is back in his voice, warm and still just a little teasing. "But the hottest guy there who's going to be interested in you is going to be me, Hal. I _dare_ you to find someone better looking than me at a casual bar, and I don't think you want to lose what I can do to you even if you do find some random civilian. But hey, if you want to give that up for a threesome, it's your call."

I finally grab the washcloth and cover it in soap before raising it to scrub over my face. "That's playing dirty," I manage, past the cloth and probably too muffled for him to actually hear me. He's got a point though. Barry's already pretty damn good looking, and even if someone is physically hotter or more my usual type — which actually is not blonde — they're not going to have the ability to vibrate their tongue or fingers, and they're definitely not going to be alright with my use of Green Lantern powers.

I scrub until my face feels a little raw, then flip the washcloth and work at the corners and edges of my face, just in case. Thankfully the mask kept the mess away from my eyes.

I finally drop the washcloth to the floor to throw in the washing machine later, give myself one last rinse, and then shut the water off. When I open the door Barry is already standing there. He's got my biggest, fluffiest towel — a dark blue one — at the ready, and a small grin. He's also taken one of my less-worn t-shirts, a plain white one, a looser pair of my blue jeans, and a pair of combat boots that I was pretty sure I'd lost to the depths of my closet. Well, at least he found something. Our dimensions don't totally work for sharing clothing.

His shoulders aren't quite as wide as mine, and his chest isn't as thick, but his legs have more muscle to them since he's a runner. I've honestly never looked, but I guess our feet are the same size too.

He flings the towel around my shoulders, and then leans in and threads his fingers through my wet hair as he kisses me. It's slower than I usually expect from him, more like some kind of confirmation than any kind of passion, and he pulls back after a couple of seconds with a soft, approving sound.

"Get dried off, Hal. Then drinks, and we'll go from there. Sound good?"

I shift my head in a small nod, trying not to lean into the touch of his fingers. "Yeah, sounds good. Think you can pick out something for me to wear while I dry off?"

His grin ratchets up a little bit, nails just barely grazing across my scalp. "Definitely. You want comfortable or _hot?_ "

I snort and roll my eyes, leaning in to kiss him — it's nice, it's something I can count on and I _really_ need that right now — and only not reaching forward and pulling him up against me because I'm still dripping. He meets me, and I can feel his grin as his fingers stroke through my hair and comb the wet strands back along my skull. I grip the towel to _not_ reach forward, damn the water, and consider the idea of just staying like this forever. Maybe sex at some point, but I think I might be alright just trading kisses and feeling him close beside me.

Until my mind glances back at the memories of the last week, and tension raises my shoulders and shortens my breath. Barry pulls back just a little, and I open my eyes to find him watching me, a hint of worry in his gaze. I swallow, duck my head away from his, and close my eyes tightly for a second.

"What is it, Hal?" Barry's voice is soft, quiet, and there's _definitely_ some concern in there.

I open my mouth to tell him 'nothing,' and brush the whole thing aside, but what comes out is, " _Children_." Then it's like the dam's been broken, and I can't stop myself from speaking, staring at the center of his chest.

"Someone tried to take over one of the planets in my sector, one of the ones the Green Lantern Corp already controls. I tracked the bastard down to kill him, and he had hostages, thought that would stop me." I squeeze my eyes shut again, my hands clenching as _anger_ twists my lips into a snarl. "They were just _children_ ; son of a _bitch_. Aliens, but I don't even see that anymore, and they were _terrified_. I don't know what the hell the weapon was, but I went after him and he killed three. They _exploded_ , with just the pull of a trigger."

My breath comes sharp, short, as the memory of standing there, _coated_ in the blood of a child that couldn't have been more than five, comes back in vivid slashes. The shock, and horror, and the _fury_.

"Just _kids_ ," I stress, with a shudder. "Earth thinks I'm a criminal, but _kids?_ Maybe I leave saving them to the heroes, maybe I threaten their safety to get what I want, but _hurting_ them? No, _never_." I'll kill anyone in my way, no hesitation, but hurting someone so completely innocent? There's no reason for that; it's fucked up and _evil_. I'm not evil, whatever people say.

"What did you do?" Barry asks, and I clench my teeth together.

I look up to meet his gaze — no pity there, only a hard anger that mirrors my own — another shudder slices down my back, and _satisfaction_ sinks low into my gut and stays there. "I skinned the son of a bitch alive."

It wasn't something I'd done before, but it was easier than I thought it would be. It was _easy_ to hold him down with loops of my power, and every scream felt like vengeance and justice all rolled into one. I didn't get as far as I wanted to before he blacked out, but every moment he was still conscious was another moment I got to make him _pay_.

" _Good_ ," Barry nearly hisses, eyes narrowing as his hands clench in my hair for a second, like he wants his hands around the bastard's throat.

Of course Barry would agree. He has a _nephew_ , Wally, who also happens to be his sidekick, Lightning. He's got the same speed powers. Barry's not evil either, not like that. Neither of us are the kind of fucked up psychopaths it would take to kill a child, or let the murder of one go without exacting _bloody_ vengeance on the son of a bitch that did it.

Barry pulls me closer, fingers flexing in my hair as he draws me into a kiss that's harder than the last few. It only lasts a second, and then he pulls back enough to give a dark laugh and say, "I'm going to guess that was pretty much just the breaking point for your week?" I manage a small nod. "Still want to go out? We can stay here, and I can go run and steal whatever kind of alcohol you want."

That… That sounds _amazing_ , actually.

I lean into him, resting my forehead against his and breathing out a sigh. "Appletinis," I admit.

"What?"

"I like appletinis." I crack my eyes open. "You going to be a jackass about that?"

Barry gives a small grin, and rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "I metabolize alcohol too fast for it to affect me." I blink, trying to wrap my head around _that_ fact, and his grin gets a little wider. "It's hilarious when people challenge me to drinking contests, you should see it."

"Maybe some other time," I say, with a small curl of my mouth because that idea _does_ sound pretty damn funny. "I want the ingredients for my drink, and my couch, and maybe a movie or something. Meet you there?"

He leans in to kiss me again, a little slower and with a very soft noise of happiness — or maybe satisfaction, that's safer to think — and then he pulls back again a few seconds later. "Meet you there." He pulls back, flicks his gaze down as he lets go of my hair, and his grin comes back full force. "You going to put on pants?" he asks, teasing.

I snort, pulling the towel off my shoulders and twisting it to snap it in at his side with a skill I haven't used since the lockers at school. He dodges with a crackle of lightning and a blur of movement, of course. "I don't need pants in my own home." I smirk at him, meeting his grin. "And neither do you. I might _consider_ boxers."

Another flash of movement and he's pressed up against me, mouth a breath away from mine. "But that would just be _boring_ wouldn't it?" And he's _gone_ , door swinging open and air rushing in to fill the space he's left.

I let a small grin curl my lips, pulling the towel up to scrub my hair and skin dry. The tension bleeds out of my shoulders, and I let my eyes close as I relax into the promise of my favorite drink, relaxation on my own couch, and a speedster to wrap my arms around and hold to my chest.

That's good enough.

* * *

The slow evolution of Hal and Barry actually caring for each other. Also, fun fact, Hal's only really a criminal on Earth, otherwise he's just a soldier or an enforcer. Most of the time, that translates into him keeping his planets running smoothly so they're still useful to Oa. Lastly, in case you thought differently, criminal does not equal evil. Most of the Crime Syndicate (I actually thought through all of them to decide this) wouldn't kill a child except maybe if the child legitimately was a threat to their immediate survival. Threaten? Sure. Leave them in danger because they know the hero is going to save them? Absolutely. But actually hurt or kill? No way. They're morally compromised and grey, not evil.

Anyway, I'll see you on Friday! (It'll be Bleach, so don't get too excited.)


End file.
